A field of tan, plush carpet welcomes your feet through my open door. Welcome to my room, my sanctuary; the womb where all my purest dreams are born. The tall, intimidating bookcase displays the objects of my affections. Peering behind a mini-waste basket are memories of the summer: driftwood carvings of unnamable animals, lucky rocks and shells, cheap, plastic prizes won at a carnival, a leaf picked on the last day of summer and one on the first day of fall, and homemade incense purchased from a frustrated vendor on a particularly hot day. A mysterious stain, most likely from the "chocolate milk" incident, oozes its way down the side of my bookshelf until it hits three flowery hair clips. Small beads are piled, poured and pasted on and into a small box. This is an art project waiting to be finished. Numerous purses hang from every available hook, and even in my closet several more hang like sad, limp sacks wanting desperately to be filled. My brain, my heart, my soul, the epicenter of my swirling schedule is tacked to my corkboard. Everything I value and hold dear can be found there: Mylette Welch's neon-painted dogs, crinkled fake flowers, actors' pictures, purple paint chips, key chains, old bumper stickers, faerie stickers, and even a long, navy blue shoelace from a very small shoe adorn my board. To the left of my board, there is my door, and if you don't mind . . . shut it on the way out.

Lauren Helvetian, 16

You've probably heard the phrase, "You are what you eat," but undoubtedly you've never heard "You are where you live." In my case, I am my room.

My room is a location to sleep and a source of privacy, but it mainly serves as one massive storage area. Any flat surface in the entire hundred square feet is fair game to use as shelving, including the pink-carpeted floor that peeks out from under weeks of laundry. Traversing frontiers off the path is like sloshing through a swamp, and just as dangerous. Although crocodiles won't be found under yesterday's jeans, you might encounter anything from hairclips to CD cases. The key to functioning in such disarray is honing your organizational skills, and a high-quality memory helps, too.

Let me explain: my room epitomizes organized chaos. To an outsider, it appears as a jumble of belongings strewn everywhere, like wrapping paper after opening presents on Christmas. However, I see a series of possessions methodically cataloged by purpose and chronological order.

My brain is similarly organized; everything I've learned is amassed in my head, although not categorized. For example, the definition of "onomatopoeia" is in my memory, though it is found next to the number of protons in oxygen. It's safe to say that both my brain and room would benefit from a good cleaning and rearranging!

By dictionary standards, 'fabulous' is an adjective which means "almost impossible to believe; incredible." When people hear this word, they may think of many things:
cars
, clothes, movies . . . . Personally, I think of drag queens. Drag queens are the living example of beauty. Every sparkling curl hair sprayed to absolute perfection reflects their bodacious attitudes. Each strategically placed fleck of glitter on those 6-inch heels seems to say, "I am positively delicious in every way and I know it!"

This is why, hung over my bed, there is a poster of none other than the infamous Dr. Frankenfurter of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." He sits there, perched on those two supple red lips like a queen on her throne, suave and elegant. He is like the sun, radiating glamour from every pore.

Pictures on my wall of Dr. Frankenfurter, Christine Jorgensen, and of course, the radiant Miss Hedwig remind me of how I desire to live each and every day. Each feathery eyelash represents that for which I strive -- utter fabulousness.

What can I tell you about my room that you already do not expect from a teenager? With more clothes on the floor than in the closet, and every empty spot littered with objects that I will never even need, my room is what every mom loves to call a pigsty. The only difference you would notice between my room and the next teen's would be the walls.

Rather than the hottest and latest celebrities, my walls are decorated with athletes. I love every sport, but there is only one that I cannot live without and that is swimming. Everyday, I wake up to the smiling, large-eared face of Michael Phelps, and the streamlined figures of Natalie Coughlin and Ian Thorpe. These idols are surrounded by lists of practice and meet schedules as well as motivational phrases clipped from magazines: "be the best you can be," "you can be a star," "impossible is nothing."

I know that I will be swimming forever; you only need to look at my walls to know that.

Elif Senvardarli, 15

Upon entering my bedroom, you'll be greeted by music blaring out of my five-CD stereo system. I love music, and I'm almost constantly playing something.

Next you'll notice my clothes strewn across the floor. Contrary to what you'd assume, these clothes are clean. I hate mornings. I can't think in the morning. So every evening I lay out my clothes for the following day.

Also, you couldn't miss my desk. It's piled high with schoolwork and half- done homework. I work hard in school, and I'm actually quite organized. At least, I'm organized in the sense that I know were everything is. But no one else could navigate my backpack, let alone my desk.

But perhaps the best way my room represents me is the way it appears so orderly. It is much like I appear to people upon first impression. But I have a walk-in closet -- which you can't really walk into anymore. I appear to have my life in complete control, and I do (mostly), but sometimes I feel like a whirlwind just swept through my schedule and dumped countless things to do there.

I'm not saying you should analyze every room you see, but it might not be a bad idea to peek around -- especially in the closet.

When I walk into my room the things that I love instantly surround me. It is an oasis from the hustle and bustle of my everyday world.

My room is the bright grass green of a soccer field, which used to be my favorite color. On the right wall there is a collection of sports cars taped up that I cut out of my Road & Track magazines. They surround a calendar featuring classic and modern Ford Mustangs. Built-in bookshelves house a collection of soccer trophies ranging from a few inches to about 2 feet. On a bulletin board are pinned various reminders and sports schedules, as well as a few pictures of my friends. On the back wall are my door, and also an assortment of food signs, including Krispy Kreme Doughnuts and Lemon Heads.

My favorite piece of furniture is, of course, my bed. Across from my bed is my desk, home to my collection of pens and pencils, numerous papers, and homework assignments that were due the day before but somehow didn't get themselves into my backpack. Also on my desk is my stereo. This is my next favorite thing in my room. I have my CDs constantly playing.

A teenager's room is one of the most personal spaces in their life. It is virtually impermeable in the sense that no one has any say into what goes in it or what happens to it.

As you walk through the white wood door, my bed takes up most of the white carpet. It sits in the middle of my room with a bamboo pattern comforter over it. On the cream-colored wall behind my bed is a picture in a green wooden frame with Japanese writing on it. The symbols mean anything in the room is good-hearted or good-natured. All around are scattered pictures of loved ones and friends to accent the thought and memories that I share with them. One of the most important things is a CD player with a collection of music. On the ground sits a deep red electric guitar. The room feels calming and matches the theme of a Japanese Zen garden.

These are a few of the concrete items that exist in the space that I call my own, but they don't necessarily symbolize what the room is to me. If all of these objects were to disappear, the walls would still stand on the love and the memories that they have witnessed. It has seen frustration, laughter, tears and just plain life played out among the four corners, but they have never had to change. I am able to know that I can rest my thoughts and put everything aside in this indulgent area. This is what I call my space. This is my room.